Page 80 of Dirty As Puck
I step out onto the press area, the usual fluorescent light harsh against my eyes. Cameras flash immediately, and microphones point towards me. The questions come like rapid-fire, demanding and invasive. I feel my stomach tighten, my chest still trembling from earlier, and a sharp pang of exhaustion cuts through me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out instinctively and sigh when Rochelle’s name displays on the screen.
I stare at the screen for a second too long before sliding it back in. I can’t answer her. Not now. Not with everyone watching.
The thought that she’s been waiting, collecting information relentlessly over the past hour, tracking, gathering, probably witnessing every move I’ve made feels like a knife twisting my chest.
My hands clench at my sides. I can’t let her see the mess I am, can’t let anyone see it.
“Mr. Morrison, can you comment on the reports about your personal life? And Ms. Winters?” A camera operator’s shout pierces through the noise of the other reporters.
I inhale slowly, forcing a calm I do not feel. “All interactions with colleagues are strictly professional,” I say, voice clipped. The words sound hollow even to me. I refuse to elaborate.
Anything more would give them and Derek the leverage they’ve already proven they can exploit. I cannot afford to let the reporters touch Rochelle’s reputation, even though she’s betrayed my trust.
“Was there any prior knowledge of these allegations, Kai? Did Ms. Winters inform you?”
I shake my head slightly, keeping my eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the flashing lenses. “I cannot comment on that. Professional boundaries are maintained at all times.”
My tone is distant, almost cold. It’s the only armor I can wear at this moment. Inside, though, I feel every crack widening. I trusted her. I loved her. And now, seeing the evidence, seeing the media hounding us both, that trust feels shattered.
“Mr. Morrison!” Another shout. My fingers twitch, desperate to grab the nearest object, to explode with something, anything.
Instead, I swallow, my jaw tight. I will not give them satisfaction. I will not give Derek any more satisfaction.
I hear Jake calling my name, stepping up behind me, but I ignore him. His presence is meant to be grounding, but grounding is impossible right now.
Every part of me wants to retreat, to vanish, to step away from the rink, from the cameras, from the sport itself. The thought flits through my mind and I let myself entertain the idea of quitting. Just leaving it all behind.
The flashes continue, the questions continue, and I continue to stand there, a stone in the storm. My chest still heaves; my hands still shake. But I will not crumble in front of them.
Finally, I turn, walking away briskly. Some of my teammates approach, trying to reach me, asking if I’m okay. I nod curtly, polite but distant, my thoughts already spiraling.
The professional statement is over. My emotions, however, are not. I feel betrayed and exhausted. For the first time, I allowmyself to consider the unthinkable––that hockey, everything I’ve fought for, might not be worth this shit anymore.
31
I sit at my kitchen table, surrounded by a mountain of papers, spreadsheets, and folders, my laptop open to multiple tabs of public records and financial documents.
The city hums outside my window, but inside, it’s all quiet, and I’m all focused. Derek thinks he’s won. He thinks he can corner me, wear me down, and watch me crumble. I refuse. If he wants to play dirty, I’ll show him what real journalism looks like.
I take a deep breath and start with what I already know. Derek Delaunay, his last verified address, known aliases, public filings. I cross-reference court records with bankruptcy filings and criminal databases, scanning for patterns.
Each entry I find makes my stomach tighten, but I press on. He’s been careful, meticulous, hiding behind layers of deception, but he hasn’t been perfect. No one is.
The more I dig, the more pieces start to line up. Phone numbers registered under different names, utility bills in cities I didn’t even expect, old rental agreements with slight name changes. It’s like a breadcrumb trail spanning through three states. I map them out on a spreadsheet, making sure they’re color-coded, connections drawn like a crime board from one of those detective shows.
I pause for a moment, realizing the sheer scope of it. Derek hasn’t just been manipulating Kai. He’s been running a whole network, exploiting people systematically. The thought makes my hands shake, but I push through the fear.
This is why I do what I do. This is why I became a journalist. Not just for the headlines and not for the fame. For moments like this, when uncovering the truth can save someone I care about.
Anger burns hot, sharpening my focus. He thinks he can hide behind his cleverness and blackmails. He seriously underestimates me.
I open another tab, this one tracking aliases in different states, comparing them with small claims court records and local police logs. Every slight discrepancy, every shadow of a past life he’s tried to erase, is another brick in the wall I’m building against him.
I’m absorbed, meticulous, relentless, ensuring that I don’t leave anything to chance.
Finally, a pattern emerges as I trace three confirmed aliases, each tied to financial irregularities and minor criminal charges, spread across three cases. It’s more than I expected, but it also means I’m closer than ever to unraveling him completely.
